


Turnabout's Fair Play

by agdhani



Category: Black Sails
Genre: F/M, Thursday Tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-31
Updated: 2015-01-31
Packaged: 2018-03-09 21:32:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3265049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agdhani/pseuds/agdhani
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Used to controlling his own destiny, Charles Vane awakes to an unexpected circumstance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turnabout's Fair Play

**Author's Note:**

> Done in response to the prompt Passion is Evil...  
> It took an unexpected turn for me, but I'm not complaining.

Maybe it had been the rum.

Maybe the opium.

No…it had to be the rum. He had not consumed any opium since that meltdown after losing his crew to Eleanor’s fury. So the rum it was. But damn, he did not remember drinking enough to warrant a blackout.

Tiny drummers kept time in his head; his muscles burned with an uncharacteristically stretched tightness and the taste in his mouth was dry, stale, and bitter. Assuming he was in a bed, assuming there would be a bottle at his bedside still, assuming more rum would at least jolt his distorted, stuffy senses back to alertness, he tried to roll to his side, marginally aware that what he lay upon was too hard to be a bed and so, he deduced, he lay upon the ground. But where?

The second deduction came abruptly, more of a shock than the first, and brought his eyes open with a start. He expected to be blinded by sunlight, through a window in whatever room he had fallen, or by the sun above if he’d had the misfortune of passing out in the street. But he was greeted with complete darkness, a place where not even light through cracks in shutters or around a door met his eyes, and when he again tried to move, this time to rub his eyes and clear them, that second shock was confirmed with greater alarm than before.

He was bound, hand and foot, spread-eagled, and, he realized quickly, naked. A primal howl ripped through him, but the sound was lost into the darkness. Nothing happened. No one came.

Frustrated, he scowled and tried to dredge his drink soaked memories, grateful that there at least seemed to be fabric beneath him. His clothes, he wondered, thinking that they had perhaps been cut away. But wiggling his hips side to side, as much as his bindings would allow, suggested a sheet of cloth rather than a bundle of clothing or dirt or wood. Sailing canvas perhaps.

Maybe he had made it back to the ship!

But his prison was still, with none of the familiar rocking of the waves, none of the familiar slapping of water upon a wooden hull. Land then, but that knowledge did not tell him where. Or why? Or who might have done this to him.

Rolling his neck and head from side to side told him that, beyond the ache of overindulgent rum, there had been no assault, no blow to the head to render him unconscious. That did not mean an enemy had not overpowered him and brought him here, held him now, perhaps for torture, perhaps to keep him out of the way, or merely to leave him to starve in this forgotten, sunless hole until he could be hung for his crimes.

No god would protect that man when Charles Vane freed himself, he growled. He had conquered death once, come back from the grave to rid himself of the origin of his fears. Four straps…leather or rope…would not hold him.

He twisted his arm back and forth, rubbing the bindings against whatever they were tied to, hoping it would, given enough time, fray the material and liberate him, or that the knotted end around his wrist would loosen so that his hand would slip free. One hand was all he would need to undo the other three restraints, and if he worked quickly, it would be done before his captors, whoever they were, returned.

But footsteps and the rattle and click of a key in a lock halted his struggle and he allowed his head to loll to one side, his eyes closed enough that he hoped he would be mistaken for unconscious still, although cracked open enough to allow some glimpse at the man or men he expected to come through the door. He would not give them the satisfaction of seeing him struggle, of seeing him aggravated and desperate like a trapped animal.  
When the silhouette entered through the dimly lit doorway, however, it proved to be a distinctly female one. In spite of himself, the name “Eleanor?” escaped his lips, accompanied by a surge of arousal throughout his body that would be unhidden in the light of the thick candle she carried. Whoever she was, she did not respond to his question but instead closed the door and then slowly approached him on silent bare feet.

She wore white, or something equally pale, a night gown only he presumed, and thus decided it could not be Eleanor. Eleanor wore no such garment for sleeping…at least not that he had ever seen. The gown wrapped snuggly around her bosom, thrusting them upwards to present deep, pale cleavage. It was the first thing he noticed about her. It was the first thing Charles noticed about most women. This woman’s hair was down about her shoulders in long silken waves that, when she was close enough, with the candlelight shining just so, shown like burnished copper.

Definitely not Eleanor.

Each step was slow, seductive in its hesitance, until she stood above him, between his spread legs, holding the candle away from herself to allow an unobstructed view of her captive. He could feel her gaze travelling the length of his body like a caress; there was curiosity there, and appreciation, that made his chest, and manhood, swell with pride. He knew he was fit, knew he was pleasing to the eye…how many women…and men…had complimented him on those features? Of course she would appreciate what she saw.

How could she not?

When the candle in her hand tipped, dripping hot wax onto the skin near his navel, he hissed, growled, and spat, “Who sent you here, whore?” Fists clenched, he strained against his bonds, the sting of heat enough to bring his anger back to the surface. She had to be a whore, sent by whomever held him to torment him. Were they nearby watching? In the room perhaps in the shadowy corners where he could not see?

“I’m not going to play your games!” he shouted at the air. No one made Charles Vane do anything he didn’t want to do. He was not about to provide voyeuristic entertainment for anyone.

But when more wax dripped, this time across the ridge beneath the head of his shaft, the hiss of breath between his lips and the tension that rippled through his body had less to do with his frustration then it did with the unexpected pleasurable flash that made the organ between his legs quiver and twitch. A little pain was good…but he had not expected that.

With more annoyance in the gesture then he felt, he narrowed his eyes and glared at her, expecting to see the sort of perverse pleasure at his reaction as he had often seen in a whore’s eyes during rough and tumble play. Instead, as she knelt there between his thighs, the light in her eyes, the turn of her mouth, spoke of an almost innocent fascination. When she did it again, this time intentionally dribbling the melted white wax the length of his growing arousal, and it jumped and hardened further in response to the pricking heat, a guileless light spread over her face.

The look stayed the bile on his tongue. Instead of angry words and insults, he snarled, “Who are you?”

Light eyes, green or blue he guessed, shot to his face, the flickering flame of the candle not enough to provide him a clear view of her features. He thought he recognized her…a shop keeper’s daughter or sister, perhaps? A bar maid? Or, he thought with a suppressed chuckle as he watched her reach across one leg to set the candle upon the ground, out of the way of being tipped, maybe such innocence was indicative of having spent her life in a convent.

“You want to learn…untie me…I’ll show you what a man’s about…”

She heard him. He could tell by the twitches upon her face, but she did not speak causing him to wonder if she was mute and had been locked away from the world all of her life. But it still did not explain how he had gotten into this predicament…or why.

He studied her pretty, un-xotic, features with interest. It occurred to him that maybe he had tried to take her to his bed, and that this was some sort of game he had agreed to in his well-oiled stupor. Such an agreement would have been out of character for him, but he knew he wouldn’t be the first drunk to make questionable decisions. He was almost prepared to accept whatever came, go along with a game that should, at least, be interesting, but the glint of light upon steel made his heart stop, made him struggle in earnest to be free of his bindings. Her position, and his, made him too vulnerable, and Charles did not like to be vulnerable. Had he hurt her…or some member of her family? A friend perhaps? Had this silent woman brought him here, or had him brought here, to extract revenge?

It was not part of his plan to die at the hands of a woman. That was not the legacy Captain Vane wanted to leave behind.

“Let me go,” he snapped, “and I’ll forget all of this…” Their gazes met, his bitter and sullen, hers surprisingly unreadable, giving him no indication of her intentions. She ran her thumb over the blade, drawing a red line behind it which she then stared dispassionately at. So she wasn’t afraid of him. At least not enough to take verbal threats seriously. The realization reinforced the possibility that he would suffer at her hands before she took his life, and unless his crew knew to look for him here, or someone came looking for her to draw her away and agree to free him, there was not likely to be a rescue. If he was to get out of this alive, he was going to have to use his wits…and maybe a few silver-tongued words. He took a deep breath and tried to think of something else he might say to sway her.

For a moment her empty hand lay lightly upon his ankle, as if she was considering his demand, and there was hope that she had brought the straight razor to free him instead of harm him, or that angry words might be enough to gain his freedom. But then she set it aside, somewhere out of his sight and turned her attention to the long line of his leg. Her fingers traced the outline of muscle, the scars of battles past and bruises and gashes gained more recently. Her profile, a serene unreadable mask, might have alluded to a clinical study of anatomy, as if determining where it would be best to sever muscle and skin from the bone beneath, but her fingers, gentle in their caress, sent shivers throughout him. At the hollow of his hip, where his leg met his torso, where the skin was soft and his smoothness gave way to thick, sweat-damp curls, she hesitated, perhaps unsure of proceeding. He opened his mouth, the pounding of blood in his veins willing to urge her to continue, but the faint quirk of her lips before her hands moved to his other foot gave his heart a jolt.

Innocent or not, inexperienced or not, she was in control. And for a man inclined to never give control of any aspect of his life to anyone, not even in bed, Charles found a peculiar rush of adrenaline in forced submission that he could never have imagined. Her thumb rubbed the arch of his foot, causing his toes to flex and curl, and then she moved upward with the same intense perusal as each inch of his leg was touched and examined. He watched her hand, or watched her face, or sometimes closed his eyes and wallowed in the interest.

What man wouldn’t want this sort of worshipful attention?

Again at the hollow of his thigh she hesitated, and his eyes opened with the rustling of her gown. She had risen to her feet and circled around him in order to kneel behind his head. He had to arch his neck, roll his eyes towards his brows to watch her, now able to study her features more closely while she, with the same studious concentration, caressed from his bound wrist, to the valley of his elbow, then to his shoulder and the depth of dark hair beneath his arm. She eluded his hands, refused to touch them, expecting, he imagined, that he would grab at her, hurt her.

It was with that realization, as he tried to make sense of her upside down features, that he wondered if he or one of his men had abused her. As brutal a man as Charles could be, he was less so with the whores he paid…most of the time. He had the coin, the physique, the charisma to bed women without force, but there were men amongst his crew who were less refined, less capable of showing respect and appreciation, more willing to take a lady against her will if they decided they wanted her. If not this flame-haired lass, whose cheeks flushed in the candle light, whose lips pursed and twisted and parted for the tip of her tongue, then perhaps a sister, a mother…a friend or cousin. A witness or a victim to such acts might explain her curiosity and attention now in an environment where she was the one in control…where a man of his strength and power and prowess was at her mercy, not the other way around.

With his thoughts wrestling the puzzle, he did not heed the repositioning of her hands until her fingertips were against his prominent cheekbones, tracing his face towards his neck, bringing her hands into a dangerous position that he failed to notice until they closed around his throat. Not tight enough to hurt, not enough to totally cut off the flow of air, but tight enough to remind him of what she could do if she chose. Where was the razor, he suddenly wondered. Fear pulsed through him again, sending tremors through his body which ended in the twitching end of his cock, milking beads of translucent wetness and pulling an unexpected strangled sound from his throat. He could feel her gaze travel the length of his torso to settle upon the unbidden arousal he could not hide in spite of the frustrating embarrassment of it. Yes adrenalin was a rush, yes he found arousal in battle and conflict and danger…

But it wasn’t supposed to be like this.

As if sensing his agitation, she smoothed his hair back from his forehead, a tender, soothing stroking, the sort of thing his mother had done to him as a child but that no one else had dared since the day his father had threatened her for coddling his son. Each stroke of her hand brought threads of emotion constricting his heart until Charles had to turn his face from her touch and the rise and fall of her breasts. He could not pull away from her, the tight bindings prevented that, but his gesture was enough to stop her. Head to the side, eyes closed, he could not see her expression, only felt the softness of breath upon his temple that told him her face was near to his, her lips perhaps inches, or less, from his skin as if she would kiss him.  
By the time he brought his face back to look at her, she was seated upright, her hands splayed across his chest, any emotion that might have been there in that kindhearted, giving moment now replaced with her focus on studying him yet again. Maybe he had imagined that breath upon his face, he thought with a scowl. Maybe he had wanted her to kiss him.

He growled, angry with himself for his uncertainty, the sound in his throat also spurred by the unanticipated raking of nails across his chest, the catching of nipples in the trail they made that gave a delicious chill of pleasure in the pain. The scratches were not enough to draw blood, might not even raise passion welts upon his sun-kissed skin, but they were enough to light his nerves and send the spark of it coursing through his blood into every corner of his being. His reaction was enough for her to do it again, to pinch between nails and twist until every hair upon his body lifted by goose bumps of need, need watered by drop after drop of moisture from his straining cock.

When her nails raked lower along his stomach, his hopes soared with anticipation that she might end his torment. As before, however, she avoided contact there and eventually stood, removing her touch completely. She circled him once, staring at him, her face shadowed by its distance from the candle so that he could not gauge her thoughts.

“Release me.”

Her head tilted to one side, maybe in consideration of his gruff demand, perhaps hearing some distant sound that he had not detected over the thunder of blood in his ears. Leaving the candle and razor where they lay, both beyond his grasp unless he freed himself from the bonds, she left the room without a word, the only sound made was the opening and closing of the door and the clack of the key in the lock once more.

Charles roared and strained at the ties that held him, hoping to break the binds, hoping that the discomfort of the chaffing material against his wrists and ankles would override the devouring need that had settled in his belly, in his balls, and refused to give him peace. When he wanted a fuck, he took one, only leaving unsatisfied when duty unexpectedly interrupted. No one left him like this! No one overrode his senses, pushed him so far against his will, and then walked away from him. Anyone who tried paid the price, and damn it, so would she if he could just get out of these straps!

The struggle and the lingering effects of his previous alcohol consumption drained his effort until he lay limp upon his canvas bed, staring into the candle’s flame as little by little the blood of erection began to retreat, taking with it some of the fullness in his balls. Sweat evaporated from his skin as time bled away, bringing with it a chill that he could not fight. Frustrated, temporarily disheartened, he let the flame transport him to a place where thoughts stilled.

The door opened. Charles jolted to alertness, wondering if he had slept, wondering how long he had been alone, and until his eyes adjusted to the dim glare in the doorway, wondering if someone had at last come with the intention of killing him. Maybe he had been a diversion for some wealthy man’s daughter or sister or wife and now that her curiosity was satisfied, his abductor would do away with him.

This was not the way Charles had believed he would die.

Recognizing her silhouette, the scent of her, brought immediate relief, immediate anger…and an unwarranted, undesired reawakening of his libido. His jaw clenched as he looked away towards the candle, keeping his attention there to express his disdain for his situation and his denial of what her presence did to him. The candle had burned down significantly and the temperature in the room had cooled, suggesting she had been gone for an hour or more at least. She had brought with her no blankets to cover him, and no new candle to replace the shrinking one, and she wore the same gown she had earlier. He could hear her movement without looking at her and spat, “Go!”

His demand was disregarded, answered instead by her kneeling once more between his thighs. There was a familiar pop, the sound of a cork being freed from a bottle, followed by something warm and wet dribbling along the length of his cock, from head to root. The spillage of warmth over his balls brought abrupt tension and he jerked, his entire body making effort to be free. Before he could speak or protest, he watched in wide eyed horror as the previously discarded razor was slid across his now tingling skin, peeling away the wax which had dried there earlier with a precision which left no trace of the blade upon his skin. Terror ignited the return of fury, resulting in a renewed effort to escape, but an unexpected slice of light pain upon the fleshy sack made him freeze.

She intended to castrate him!

But the yelp of pain and his sudden stiffness caused her to drop the blade and look at him with sad, apologetic eyes, one hand now cupping wounded flesh, her thumb caressing where the knick had been made. “Don’t!” he snarled, though her expression reminded him that the injury had come due to his own actions. Whatever her intentions were, that particular cut had not been one of them.

Her thumb, the way she now cupped him, squeezing and twisting, brought a different snarl, the tone of it changing with the pressure she used and with the closing of her other hand around the erection that grew painfully within her fist. She observed him as he watched her, changing the pressure of her hands, the direction of movement, so many little nuances until his body writhed and bucked of its own volition to her magic. It took most whores he had known repeated visits before they learned what he liked, how he liked it, what he preferred. This perplexing stranger read his features, the sounds in his chest and throat, the speed of his breathing, the rocking twists of his body, as if they were a map and she a proficient navigator traversing his familiar oft traveled deep waters. A navigator not beyond taking risks, coaxing the vessel of his body into unfamiliar, dangerous seas, with her nails scratching the sensitive cap, the pad of her thumb rubbing patterns around his weeping head, her grip twisting to introduce spasms of pain that forced him into blissful corners he had not thought possible.

He forgot he was her hostage, that the straps holding him had been put there against his will. He forgot that the room was cold as the fire of need burned through his blood. He forgot, behind the bursts of bright color behind his lids, that the room was dark. He forgot that there was a ship awaiting him, that there was a world beyond this place. His entire existence centered between his thighs in a way that went beyond the need for relief in the arms of some nameless whore. It was these hands, only these and the physical demand for relief that stretched on into an untimed eternity. Charles could not even control the steady spill of moans that clawed from his throat past the unending gasps for air to fill his aching lungs. He had no control at all.

When it came, the inevitable moment of nirvana that nature demanded from skilled manipulation, when her hands tightened as if to clamp back the eruption, his body arched in the bonds, hips rising as high from the floor as his position allowed, the sacrifice of her efforts, of his body, burst forth with a howl.

His soul, his body, his life crumpled to his canvas bed in ecstatic exhaustion. He felt what he thought to be lips, a kiss upon the fount of his delight, and then heaven and earth turned serenely black behind his eyes.

Only later, when the candle had devoured its own light did Charles stir from the depths of the most restful slumber of his life, his head clear of rum, his bare limbs curled in natural sleep, the restraints that had held him and the posts they had been bound to no longer there. Only his clothing, clean and folded upon a chair near the slightly ajar door. Nothing else remained save for the canvas upon which he had slept, and he might have thought those memories a product of the rum save for two things.

The tingling, heavy ache throughout his groin and the sting of a blade’s cut felt upon his balls. No dream then...

He smirked in satisfaction.

But who in God’s name was she?


End file.
